


An Interrupted Holiday

by nickelsandcoats



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-19
Updated: 2011-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For <a href="http://mariemjs.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://mariemjs.livejournal.com/"><b>mariemjs</b></a>’s Make Me a Monday picture prompt, found <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/2045387.html?thread=25261515#t25261515">here</a>; Do make sure you click the link to see the adorable picture that she used as her prompt. Some of this was also shamelessly inspired by the comments left under the prompt.</p>
    </blockquote>





	An Interrupted Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://mariemjs.livejournal.com/profile)[**mariemjs**](http://mariemjs.livejournal.com/)’s Make Me a Monday picture prompt, found [here](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/2045387.html?thread=25261515#t25261515); Do make sure you click the link to see the adorable picture that she used as her prompt. Some of this was also shamelessly inspired by the comments left under the prompt.

Two days into their three day holiday, John was feeling a bit sorry for himself. This really hadn’t been much of a holiday at all, really. But it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that he managed to sniff out trouble no matter where he went. Not really.

John had finally managed to convince Sherlock to take a holiday for their second anniversary (their first had been spent in a very smelly skip on a stakeout—John had had to bin the clothes he was wearing that night), and even better, had managed to convince him to go to a beach. John had been picturing something like the French Riviera or somewhere in Greece, but Sherlock had seemed reluctant to leave the country. So, John had done his research while Sherlock had conducted an experiment involving dissolving eyeballs in various chemicals. Since Sherlock wasn’t willing to go out of the country, John humoured him even further by looking at beaches in the southeast of England. He settled on Eastbourne in East Sussex, determined to find something that would have enough stimulation to keep Sherlock entertained. Not that he was planning on seeing much of the beach beyond what they could see from their hotel room’s window, but still. It was the thought that counted.

John took care of the packing. Sherlock insisted on bringing his laptop, and kept sneaking it back into the bag every time John tried to remove it.

“Sherlock,” he said, exasperated at his lover’s eighth attempt to secrete the laptop in their suitcase, “we are supposed to be on holiday. That means no laptop, and no checking your email or website from your mobile,” he paused, “or mine, for that matter.”

Sherlock looked horrified. “What good is a holiday if I’m cut off from the world?”

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “That’s the point.”

Sherlock huffed and stalked off to go do more unspeakable things to eyeballs. John felt a twinge of guilt at denying Sherlock anything, and grudgingly put the laptop back in the suitcase.

*

One two-hour train ride later, and they were checking into their hotel.

John took the keys from the concierge and followed Sherlock up to their room. In the elevator, Sherlock was fidgety and almost nervous, as if there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t quite figure out how. John reached over and gently took Sherlock’s hand; the contact almost instantly relaxed Sherlock, who gave him a small smile.

“What is it?” John asked softly, running his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles.

“I haven’t been on a holiday since I was ten years old,” Sherlock admitted.

John’s heart broke a little for him.

“I was always too busy to relax, so even when Mummy and Mycroft left, I would insist on staying behind but they always made me go with them. I didn’t see the point of ‘getting away from it all’ with people I saw every day.”

John looked a little hurt. Sherlock noticed and gently squeezed his hand. “I’m beginning to see the appeal in it now, though,” he said, smiling at John as the elevator doors opened onto their floor. “Finally, when I was ten, Mummy tired of fighting with me over holidays, so she hired a nanny to watch me while they left. It was heaven—I had free run of the house and the nanny left me alone.”

John put the key in the lock and opened the door. The room was neat and sparsely decorated—just a simple table that doubled as a desk, two chairs, an armoire that housed the telly, two nightstands, a few lamps, and a large bed. Sherlock dumped their suitcase on the bed and immediately unpacked their clothes, hanging them neatly on the small clothes rod in the armoire. John shut the suitcase with a decisive snap and put it on the floor.

“I think that I should show you how fun a holiday can be,” he purred as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist from behind, fingers deftly undoing the taller man’s shirt buttons.

They didn’t leave the room that night.

*

John was awoken at half four in the morning by his overexcited lover jostling his shoulder and hissing, “John! John! Wake up, John, we have to see the local constabulary. I’ve already texted Lestrade and he’s already talked to the local police so I can help them out.”

John groaned. “Holiday, Sherlock. That means no working.” He rolled over and blearily looked at the alarm clock. “Wait, you texted Lestrade at 4:30 in the morning? And he answered you?”

“Lestrade always answers my texts,” Sherlock said primly. “Now get up and get ready—we need to be at the station in half an hour.”

“Mind telling me what’s so important that it’s worth interrupting our holiday for?”

“Oh, we’re not leaving Eastbourne, so technically, we’re still on holiday.” He turned the laptop so John could see it.

John squinted at it and silently cursed his moment of weakness in bringing the laptop along. Sherlock had pulled up the local newspaper’s site, which had a huge headline about a string of violent robberies that had been committed in the past few days. Apparently, there was another one last night, but this one had ended with a dead body (not the robber’s). He reached out and scrolled through the article. Police stumped. No leads. No evidence left at each crime scene. Sherlock’s face was lit with unholy glee. John sighed and threw back the covers. So much for a relaxing holiday.

*

They spent that day going nearly everywhere in Eastbourne except the beach. After visiting the local police (and listening to Sherlock make disparaging comments about the abilities of said police both under his breath and out loud) and having to apologise for the detective’s behaviour to nearly every person they met, John found himself staring longingly at a café. It was half seven in the morning, he was on holiday, and had been forced out of bed three hours earlier and still hadn’t had any tea yet. Unacceptable.

He cut off Sherlock’s rambling mid-sentence by walking into the café. To be fair, it did take almost ten seconds for the stunned guppy look to fall off Sherlock’s face before he followed the doctor into the café. John was already seated and perusing the menu as Sherlock took a seat.

“I’m sorry, John.”

John looked up at him, startled. Sherlock rarely apologised for anything, not even when he had exploded the intestines in the microwave and dissolved toenails in the kettle on the same day. This was unexpected, and John was appropriately wary. “What for?”

“For dragging you out of bed and not making sure you ate something.”

John nodded. Sherlock was obviously wracking his brain in an effort to ensure that he apologised for everything. _Perhaps my efforts at teaching him proper manners are working. Or he just wants something and is softening me up so I’ll do it. Be strong, Watson,_ he thought. “Anything else?” John couldn’t help but feel a little smug at the panic that crossed Sherlock’s face as he furiously tried to deduce what else John wanted an apology for. John could practically hear the wheels in Sherlock’s brain spinning. He only felt a little guilty for causing the panic—but Sherlock had violated the “no working whilst on holiday” rule.

“And…for working on a holiday?” Sherlock tried to disguise the interrogative bent of his question, but failed.

John smiled. It would be cruel to let the poor man squirm any more. “Apology accepted.” He gently brushed his knee against Sherlock’s as the waitress took their orders (tea and toast for Sherlock; tea, eggs, bacon, and toast for John).

After they had eaten, they went to each of the crime scenes, where Sherlock found trace bits of evidence and bemoaned the ineptness of the police at each scene. They worked straight through till early evening without a break until John insisted on eating an early dinner. Sherlock nearly vibrated off his chair at the restaurant as his brain kept turning and turning all the evidence they had managed to scrape together.

When they finished dinner, Sherlock insisted on going back to the station and looking at the case files one more time (the local police had forbidden him from taking them, much to Sherlock’s dismay). It was nine o’clock before Sherlock sat straight up and gave a triumphant cry. John had drifted off and jerked awake.

“What? What is it?”

“I know who our murderer is.”

After a brief stop at the hotel to nap (John) and plan their stakeout (Sherlock), the two found themselves outside the murderer’s next target.

As midnight came, John turned to Sherlock and asked, “Is it really going to become our anniversary tradition to spend our anniversary night in a skip?”

Sherlock grinned at him. “You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

John had to concede that while spending their anniversary night on a stakeout wasn’t the worst way to spend it, he didn’t really appreciate having to sit in a skip.

Sherlock leaned over and kissed John deeply before they settled in to watch the house once more.

*

Their murderer showed up at 3 in the morning, and John, who had finally convinced the police to give them a radio so they could call in when the murderer arrived, radioed the police as Sherlock leapt out of the skip and ran fleet-footed after the murderer, who had just entered the house.

The police arrived soon after Sherlock and John had confronted the murderer. The arrest was made, and Sherlock and John had promised to come back by the station later in the morning to give their statements. The police in Eastbourne were not as willing as Lestrade to let them give their statements later, so Sherlock and John had found themselves following the police back to the station and giving their statements right away. An hour later, they were finally thanked profusely and free to go.

John collapsed on the bed and pulled Sherlock down with him, determined to get some sleep so they could enjoy their last day in Eastbourne before their late train back to London.

*

They woke at noon and took their time getting out of bed. John finally remembered that the whole point of coming to Eastbourne was to go to the beach, and after Sherlock was done thoroughly distracting him from getting out of bed (not that John was complaining—the things that man could do with his tongue had to be illegal somewhere), and John had gotten his breath back and reciprocated, it was nearly one. John got out of bed and rummaged through the suitcase, pulling out two pairs of swim trunks.

Sherlock groaned. “You surely don’t expect me to wear those, do you?”

“Well, you’re not wearing a suit to the beach, and you’re not going starkers, so yes, you need to wear these.”

“But they’ve got _pineapples_ on them, John!”

John gave him a wicked grin and threw the trunks at Sherlock, who grumbled but put them on as John packed their towels and a few books into a small bag.

Much to Sherlock’s horror, they didn’t go straight to the beach. John insisted upon walking along the shops that sell trinkets and souvenirs. At one point, he stopped outside a shop selling beach paraphernalia: towels, umbrellas, shovels, buckets, sunscreen, and the like. John’s eyes lit up as he opened the shop door and proceeded to buy two buckets, two shovels, and a bottle of sunscreen (Sherlock had used the bottle John had bought in London in a experiment involving a pig liver—John didn’t ask). As they left the shop, John took Sherlock’s hand and led him down to the beach.

Sherlock looked endearingly uncertain as John spread out their towels and then took off his shirt and applied sunscreen everywhere he could reach. He didn’t seem to notice that Sherlock hadn’t taken off his shirt until he looked up and held the bottle out, asking, “Will you do my back?”

Sherlock started and came back to himself, shrugging off his shirt and accepting the bottle of sunscreen. He applied a liberal amount to John’s back, perhaps kneading at the doctor’s shoulders for longer than was strictly necessary to ensure the lotion was evenly applied. John turned and gave him a lascivious smirk as he took the bottle and rubbed the sunscreen over every inch of Sherlock’s exposed skin.

“Wouldn’t do to get a sunburn,” John said as Sherlock gave a soft moan of appreciation. “Besides, I like the contrast of your skin with mine, don’t you?” And he did; seeing his tanner skin pressed against Sherlock’s near-porcelain skin made his stomach twist with desire.

Sherlock’s response was to moan again, and then give a very undignified squeak of protest when John stopped touching him and laid down on his towel. “What are you doing?” Sherlock asked.

John rolled his head and squinted at him. “Have you never been to a beach before?”

“No.” Sherlock looked confused. “What, exactly, is one meant to do at a beach?”

“Sunbathe, swim, read, build sandcastles, walk along the tide line and collect shells, that sort of thing. Where did your family go on holiday if you’ve never been to a beach?”

“Paris, Berlin, places like that. They were meant to be educational, but the museums didn’t teach me anything new.”

“Well, then, relax. Read your book. Or we can go swim.”

Sherlock opened his book and laid back, trying to get in a comfortable position on the sand. After fifteen minutes of his squirming, John shot him a glare. Sherlock huffed and finally rolled until he was pressed against John’s side and settled down. Much better.

An hour later, John declared that they were going swimming. Sherlock thought it was great fun to sneak up on John and grab his legs and pull him under. John did not agree, and after the fifth dunking, finally grabbed Sherlock around the waist and pulled him under, the two of them laughing all the time. When Sherlock complained about his fingers getting pruney, they struggled out of the water and went to rinse the salt off.

They went back to their towels and sat back down. Sherlock’s attention was caught by a pair of young children who were building a sandcastle. “Don’t they realise that if they’d build a thicker base that their towers would stay upright?” he asked John after he watched the lopsided tower fall for the second time.

John looked over and smiled. “They’re just having fun. It doesn’t matter if it’s perfect.”

Sherlock looked affronted.

John’s eyes gleamed as a plan crossed his mind. “I bet I can build a better sandcastle than you can.”

“Terms?”

“Loser buys dinner. We each can use only the things found on the beach. No support structure other than sand. You can only use your shovel, bucket, or hands. No recruiting help from the kids. Two hours to build.”

“Done.” They solemnly shook hands, grabbed their shovels and buckets, and set off for a clear patch of sand. Sherlock stubbornly hid his castle from John’s view. After ten minutes, a small crowd gathered to watch and cheer them on. After their two hours were up, John turned around to grin at Sherlock. “Let me see,” he implored as Sherlock fussed with his shovel for a moment.

Sherlock finally stood and John’s jaw dropped. Sherlock’s castle was a marvel. It had spires and battlements and six carefully crafted towers. He had even managed to carve lines into the door to simulate the grain of wood and had carefully scratched out individual bricks on every wall.

Next to Sherlock’s, John’ s castle seemed dumpy in comparison. John smiled at his lover and said, “Congratulations. I don’t suppose there’s any point to ask someone to judge whose is better.” He leaned up and kissed Sherlock briefly before moving closer to inspect the intricacy of the castle. He noticed something down inside the courtyard. “Sherlock, is that—is that supposed to be a chalk outline for a dead body?”

Sherlock beamed at him. “Of course. He fell from one of the turrets.”

John rolled his eyes. Of course Sherlock would put a murder scene in his castle. And of course Sherlock’s first-ever castle would be perfect. John knew that issuing the man a challenge was a surefire way to keep him occupied, so his little plan had worked. Sherlock’s cheeks glowed with pleasure as the crowd admired his castle, and he was animated as he explained how he had made the turrets and the bricks to the enthralled children. John’s heart glowed with pride and love as the crowd dwindled and it was just the two of them again.

“So what else do we need to do at a beach?”

“Well, we haven’t gone on our walk along the tide line to collect shells yet,” John replied.

Sherlock held out his hand and led John to the water line, occasionally stooping to inspect a shell or a piece of trash and deduce who had thrown it away. John was smiling at Sherlock’s enthusiasm as the taller man filled his trunk’s pockets with shells. “I need specimens, John!” he had exclaimed when his pockets were full and he started dropping shells into John’s pockets, much to the doctor’s chagrin.

Eventually, John had drawn ahead while Sherlock investigated a piece of driftwood that had washed ashore. John could hear him musing about which tree it had come from and where said tree was likely located. He smiled as he leaned down and picked up a stick and indulged in another traditional beach activity as he wrote S + J and drew a heart around the letters. Sherlock walked up after John finished the heart and had walked on, twirling the stick in his fingers as he bent to pick up another shell. Sherlock picked up his own stick and wrote “Really, John? That is so plebeian” with an arrow pointing to the heart. But he was smiling as he wrote it. He knew that John needed these kinds of declarations that John had put in that heart; that on occasion, John needed to be reminded that even though Sherlock didn’t always demonstrate it in the most conventional ways, he loved John with everything he had.

Sherlock dropped his stick and ran to catch John up. He caught John’s hands in his own, brushing his finger along John’s wedding ring. “I love you,” he said, enjoying the brief startled look in John’s eyes before it was replaced by a warm smile. “I know I don’t always say it or show it, but I do, John. And I’m sorry that I ruined our anniversary holiday.”

John leaned up and kissed him deeply. When they broke for air, John pulled Sherlock’s forehead down against his own. “I love you, too, you know. And I wouldn’t have had our holiday any other way.” He paused. “Well, I would’ve liked not spending it in a skip, but otherwise, I wouldn’t change it, or you, for the world.”

Sherlock cupped John’s face and kissed him again. “Thank you, John. For everything.”

John smiled at him as Sherlock slipped his left hand down into John’s right. John ran his fingers over Sherlock’s wedding ring as they walked slowly back to their things, thanking every deity he knew that he had been given this incredible, wonderful, strange man. Sherlock suddenly dropped his hand as his mobile went off. He dug it out of his pocket, dislodging several shells, and flipped it open.

“It’s Lestrade. He needs us back in London ASAP. There’s a locked room and a dead body!” He ran back to their towels, stuffing everything back into the small bag as John chuckled and picked up the shells Sherlock had dropped.

John watched his husband fondly as Sherlock grabbed the now-packed bag and reached for John’s hand, which he willingly gave, and pulled the doctor along back to their hotel to change. He had the bag handles looped over his arm as he checked the train timetables on his mobile with one hand, still clutching John’s hand in the other.

“There’s a train at 18.45 that we can catch if we hurry. Come on, John!” He dropped John’s hand as they reached their hotel so he could race up the stairs, too impatient to wait on the elevator.

 _No,_ John thought as he let the familiar race of adrenaline at Sherlock’s excitement and the prospect of a case propel him up the stairs, _I wouldn’t have this any other way._


End file.
